Tag: alcohol

This title was meant to illustrate the range of topics one might expect to find here, but kittens are the result of erections, aren’t they?

ERECTIONS

From Phillips 66, YOUR LIFESTYLE SOURCE, we have MALE STAMINA POWDER! “Swish and Swallow!” I swear, that’s what it says. “Acts in 30 minutes!” I guess you sit around twiddling your, um, thumbs for half an hour, and then JUMP ON IT, BEFORE IT GOES AWAY! Is there some epidemic of erectile dysfunction in this town? Judging from the number of baby-daddy calls I take daily, I would say not. And, although They tell us “It is not your job to judge callers’ life choices,” I’m going to do it anyway, and say that society was better off without this epidemic of baby-daddyism.

DRUNKER THAN I’VE EVER BEEN

Nick & Sam had a run tonight (and no one made them take this job) (although we did make them take this particular run) of a naked drunk woman inside a man’s house. He had “let her in so she could sober up,” and she urinated on his floor. Then she got blood on his floor, and said that he’d tried to rape her. Investigation determined this was not the case, so I’m guessing it turned out to be her period.

WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE…

–“I need the police because I went over to talk to my friend, and she punched me in the face, and we ended up grappling in her yard.” Now correct me if I’m wrong (go ahead, I dare you), but someone I’m grappling with in a yard is not going to be a friend. Well, I guess it depends on what you mean by grappling.

…AND SPEAKING OF GRAPPLING…

These two stories were featured in my original Newsletter, many long years ago, but readers enjoyed them, so I think they bear repeating:

–Once when Rom and I were engaged in, um, grappling in our bedroom, he ended up kicking the window and cracking it. The best part of the story was before we moved out, when the landlord was inspecting the place to see if we’d get the damage deposit back, he asked how the window got cracked, and Rom, who is normally painfully honest, said, “It was, um, that strong wind we had the other night.” It took the hope of a damage deposit to keep me from laughing.

–And once, while grappling by candlelight, as is our custom, the candle set off the smoke alarm. I’m just glad we figured out what it was instead of calling the fire department. Which reminds me of a fire run I once dispatched–“Investigate a smell of burning rubber in caller’s bedroom.” Or a police run, “Investigate a report of a female screaming inside a house,” where the officer’s summation was, “Um, this wasn’t domestic violence.”

(“These stories sure do bear repeating,” they say. “Because we were really wanting to hear stories about your sex life.”)

AND SPEAKING OF ROM….

I would like to thank Rom’s sister for going on at length to family friend Doris (glad to meet you, Doris! hope you found your way to this blog!) about how brilliant, honest, and multi-talented Rom is. It’s all true, and makes me feel somewhat inferior, since I am only uni-talented, depending on whether sarcasm is actually a talent.

REPRINTED FROM FACEBOOK

Rom’s said sister offered me a lift to work, after I encountered her this afternoon. I said her truck door was locked, since I couldn’t get it open. “You just need to pull really hard,” she said. I did, no luck. “No, it really is locked,” I said. My mother-in-law came over and opened it for me. My mother-in-law is 85 years old. I can’t get out of vehicles without assistance, either.

Overheard from across the room–“Sir, did you say the kittens are enclosed in plastic? Could you remove the plastic, so they can breathe?” Reminds me of a call back in the 80’s where a woman gave birth in the toilet. (She hadn’t known she was pregnant, and thought it was an attack of indigestion.) My colleague asked her, “Ma’am, have you removed the baby from the toilet yet?” We can take nothing for granted.

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I am observing Fat Tuesday (remember the World Leader Edict–observing it the previous weekend doesn’t count) by staying safely at home and drinking my remaining 3 apple ales from my Valentine 6-pack. Let’s see what happens, shall we? Probably nothing, but you never know, I may go out in the front yard and raise hell. And then the police will be called. And I will say to them, “Do you know who I am??” and things will go downhill from there.

THE VIEW FROM BOTTLE 1

Still typing pretty fast.

I got my first smartphone, at long last, and it appears to be smarter than I am. It and I are still getting to know each other. There are many interesting things you can now do to a photograph. I understand the allure of Sepia (make things old-timey!) and Negative (make everything look creepy!) but not of Aqua. (“Hey, look we’re underwater!”?) And what exactly does Solarize mean? Posterize apparently means “make everything look like a bad 60-s era picture.” “Press button to rotate camera.” Why would I want to–oh no. It’s for the dreaded selfie. Look at that face. Now I see why I keep getting offered senior discounts I don’t even deserve yet. Hmm, I look better in Negative. Accentuate the negative. And why won’t it let me Solarize or Posterize myself? Anyway, earlier I took an adorable picture of Rom sleeping on the couch, resting his broken leg, with his faithful calico cat upon him. (My faithful black-and-white cat is not a lap cat, which I suppose is no more than I deserve, since I’m not a lap person.) (Speaking of which, a minor leg fracture takes 4-6 weeks to heal, which is a LONG time to go without…oh, never mind.)

VIEW FROM BOTTLE 2

I have an hour to finish off these bottles before Rom gets back in here to make dinner. Won’t he be surprised? So that’s 1/2 hour for each. Time to get goal-directed.

I’m feeling a little blurry around the edges.

Did you know cats can tell if you’re drunk? It’s true.

This bottle cap didn’t want to come off, but I prevailed, with the help of a towel. Woman is a tool-using animal, at least when there is no man around to do it for her.

The cat (black and white) wants me to play with her. Can do! I just rustle some paper and she goes crazy. I don’t even need to get up. Which is a good thing.

I finally figured out (yesterday) how to cut open a packet of soy sauce with a scissors without spilling any! I am learning useful life skills. Maybe I’ll have them all mastered by the time I die.

25 minutes left to finish this bottle. I’d best get to it. Apple ale tastes really good. I hope I get strawberry ale for my birthday.

What should I do now? Listen to music? Rom has some of that New Orleans music (I forget what it’s called) but I don’t like that. Maybe my “More Cowbell” anthology, which has “Mississippi Queen” on it. But if I listen to music, I might forget to get the 3rd bottle, and we can’t have that.

I have the feeling this is like “Flowers for Algernon,” and I’ll get progressively stupider as this post proceeds. Don’t you love a drunk who keeps talking about how drunk they are? I guess it beats being a drunk who calls 911 and claims not to be drunk, as they usually do. Hey, I’m doing research, so I’ll understand my callers! Maybe I’ll call 911. It wouldn’t be the first time.

20 minutes left, have I finished a third of this bottle yet? I’m not good with math.

Have I reached a new low point yet? Remember, I warned you at the outset that this blog would be self-indulgent. Of course, so are they all. And of course, no one requires that you read it. Until I actually do rule the world, of course.

Speaking of which, Baby Corn has been sighted at the bottom of an order of Chinese food (not mine). It was lurking in the hope of going undetected. Its time will soon be here. Although it doesn’t seem like it, what with all this snow and stuff. Which I, like everyone, have had enough of.

8:16 and I’m not half done yet! Maybe speed-drinking would be a bad idea.

Dear FanBase, I am sorry that I post so seldom these days.

Drunk texting–a good idea? Or not?

I guess not. I just tried texting to a landline. The phone should have a “Go home, you’re drunk!” tone. Oh wait, I am home.

I am lucky there’s not a feature saying “Rate This Post.” I guess the comments section would cover that.

It is significantly more difficult to stand up now that it was the last time I tried it. But I managed it.

8:31! I’ve not even finished the 2nd bottle! I am a weenie girl, as a Certain Person would say. Oh wait, girls don’t have weenies.

I will just have to keep up my momentum through dinner, I suppose. Rom can’t blame me, since he gave me the 6-pack. Of which I am only drinking half, I hasten to remind you. At this time, I mean. I drank the other half on 2 previous occasions.

I seem to have lost momentum. Should I hit “Save This Post” and then go on Ebay? I can’t think of anything I need, but they probably have something.

Did you know that everything tastes great when you’re drunk? I can hardly wait for dinner.

Apple ale sounds like it wouldn’t have much alcohol, but that’s not true. At least not for a weenie girl such as myself.

Did you know women are the original pussies? It’s true.

I’m beginning to sound like Poor Richard’s Almanac. Or maybe like a writer of fortune cookies. Did you know that they’re written by professional writers, and not by Chinese fortune-tellers? Speaking of which, my fortune cookies last night said,

1. “You have executive ability.” Yeah, that’s why I’m not a supervisor, and

2. “Better caution at first than tears afterwards.” That’s true in so many situations. I can think of one right now. Where I wasn’t cautious, I mean.

Perhaps I should become a writer of fortune cookies. They certainly wouldn’t be any worse. I’ll look into it.

Time to get the last bottle! Wow!

VIEW FROM BOTTLE 3. TYPING IS HARD.

Did you know that my house has lots of corners that it’s hard to get around?

This stuff tastes very good.

Rom will be here in 10 minutes. I have no hope I can finish this bottle before then, but I’ve opened it, so I’m committed to a course of action.

Feeling a little dizzy. By the time you read this, I may be dead.

I got up to pet the cat and almost tipped my chair over. But I didn’t, so there’s hope.

I have 3 bottle caps on my desk. For some reason, I keep forgetting to throw them away, although I do remember to dispose of the bottles.

OK, this property is now occupied by one guy with a broken leg and one drunk. It’s like the blind leading the naked (which is the title of a Violent Femmes album, lest you think I cleverly thought it up myself).

Did you know the Violent Femmes came from Milwaukee, like I did? Came from Milwaukee, I mean.

It’s 9:00! Rom will be wondering why I have the hiccups.

I have had 2 1/3 bottles so far. I wonder if Stewart/Colbert will be more or less funny in my current condition.

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…and what have we learned? Not a whole hell of a lot, I’ll wager. THIS BLOG IS FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY. THEORETICALLY.

I re-read last night’s offering–way to still spell correctly while intoxicated! We’ll have to try 3 bottles next time and see how I do. Yes, I’m a cheap drunk. Always have been.

Remember (from so long ago–the post before last, in fact) the Cheap-Glove Fiasco? Bought them, then couldn’t wear them home because they were joined together by the Dreaded Plastic Filament? Rom said, “Did you know you could just pull them apart? I did it with two fingers.” Grrr…

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CALLS THAT MAKE ME WANT TO SAY, “I RECOMMEND YOU EXERCISE MORE DISCERNMENT IN THE SELECTION OF SEX PARTNERS”:

–“My ex-girlfriend wants to take our kid across state lines, and I think joint custody means she can’t do it without my permission.” The caller was 17 years old.

–“I’m here for visitation, but I’m not allowed to approach my ex-husband’s house until they text me and tell me they’re bringing the children out to me, and they were supposed to do it 15 minutes ago. Oh wait, they’re doing it now.”

–“My husband and I are separating and I want him to leave, but he’s packing too loudly and keeping the kids awake.”

Just remember, kids are our future, and just think how these will turn out.

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–“Female walking down the street, kicking cars like she’s a ninja.”
–“So someone was throwing raw chicken legs at you from his car window?”

–“Complaint of someone in the motel room trying to hug the caller’s wife.”

–“Report of a hillbilly inside the gas station at Barker and Broadway, trying to start a fight with the caller.” Being a hillbilly turned out to mean wearing a cowboy hat. You know the lights are always bright on Broadway…

–“Report of a man walking down the street screaming like he’s mad at the world.”

–“Check for a teenage boy dressed all in black curled up in the middle of the road.”

–“What’s my address? Ask President Obama and he’ll tell you.”

You might think these were all the calls I’d saved up, well, since I last posted about strange calls, but no, they all came in a single night. As did seven traffic accidents, all over town, within a two-minute time span. Ready, set, crash!

TALES (OR TAILS) OF THE FRIGHTFULLY IMMATURE

Dinner was brought, once again, by Nick and his handler. He proudly brought the bag in his teeth and dropped it on my desk (all that training is paying off!), then, remembering that I can’t eat with him staring at me, tactfully withdrew and bothered somebody else. Everybody else. Then he returned and–

–stole the scissors so I couldn’t open the soy sauce, but refused to open it for me himself instead,

–threatened to throw my grapes all over the room (and a good thing he didn’t, because I take my food seriously and there would have been a scene),

–and accused me of treating him like a prostitute, in which case he would be high-priced and insolent.

FOOD RUINED BY OFFICERS–MORE COMMON THAN YOU MIGHT THINK

The specter of grape-throwing reminds me of a dispatch party held at Ye Olde F.O.P. Club (at Louisiana and Fares, across from Red Spot Paint–very atmospheric!). Former Officer P.K. (name withheld to protect the innocent, by which I mean me, from the guilty), under the influence of alcohol (I hope, otherwise there’s NO excuse at all) smashed his face into the cake, thus ruining it for us all before we’d even cut it. And I don’t mean he passed out and fell into it. I mean he deliberately stuck his face into it and rooted around. He is no longer with the department, due to another error in judgment.

You know, tales of the old Club could make a whole post in themselves. It would embarrass quite a few people, me not the least.

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What? Where am I?

I am currently a 911 dispatcher in the Midwest. I have opinions, which I hope to present in a (usually) humorous manner. I feel somewhat intimidated by the pressure to appear charming and interesting on this page. And I hate scratchy glitter.